


Another Life

by ayoez



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Introspection, Post-Korra Avatar, Vignette
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-03-30 15:20:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3941677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayoez/pseuds/ayoez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of vignettes from the people of Republic City 80 years after LoK, thinking back on the people and events that shaped their world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Another Life

**Author's Note:**

> About 80 years after Book 4, the next Avatar thinks about Korra, her life, and what it means to know her.
> 
> A vignette I wrote for fun, since I like looking back on series from a historical point of view. I may write more if the mood strikes me.

There was only one life to call on, and it drew him in sometimes.

It was strange, how close he could feel to Korra. Or how it seemed that way. Sometimes he wondered if he merely talked to a shadow, while the real Korra’s spirit had floated to the unknown. He wondered if, when he was not talking to her, Korra was able to be somewhere with her loved ones. He couldn’t tell, and didn’t dare ask.

That is why he did it for her.

Once a month, go to the grave. Light the candles, place them there. Sweep it. Polish the name so that it shown bright. Asami Sato. No one he knew, but Korra had loved her. Loves her.

He had met him once there, that man with eyes like ice. Amaqjuaq did not like him. The Avatar had stolen mama, and then mom had gone with her. When Amaqjuaq looked at Zheng from behind the frames of his glasses, something barely repressed roiled. 

“Hello, Avatar Zheng.”

“Hello, Amaqjuaq.”

That was all they said. Zheng handed Amaqjuaq the broom as he went to polish Korra’s name on the grave beside Asami’s. She was not dead to him, but it wouldn’t do to leave one half of the pair dirty.

That had been many months ago. He wondered what Korra thought as he went through his day. Was she proud of him? The first Avatar born, not in one of the four great nations, but in Republic City? Sure, his family was mostly Earth Confederation, and that had something to do with it. But it meant something, that the Avatar came from the land of unity.

He looked up at the screens of Raiko Square. Some advertisements for Future Industries' new phone (“Future Gear 2: it’s all in your pocket”), an ad for vacations to the Western Air Temple (“See the wonders of ancient Air Nomad engineering!”), dozens for a dramatic mover about Firelord Ozai’s final days as a ruler (“ _The Final Dragon_ : Welcome to the end of an era”). Of course, they wanted him training right now, ready for the newest threat that might emerge. One of the Earth Confederation’s petty states threatening nuclear war, activists leaking Water Tribe diplomatic cables, Neo-Equalists rebelling in the Fire Nation. 

But Zheng was 20, and just wanted to get his degree at Republic City University done. First Avatar to go to college, too, but he insisted. The poli-sci degree would be useful for his work.

In his heart, he knew he’d chose it because he liked it. If he hadn’t been the Avatar, he’d have picked it anyway. Not that he knew what  _not_ being the Avatar was like.

He bought a steamed bun off a food cart and sat down on a bench, staring blankly up at the screens again.

“Korra.”

He wasn’t sure if she heard.

“Did you know what to do when you were my age?”

No answer. Of course not, not when he wasn’t meditating. But he knew the answer, anyway.

“No, huh? Guess even you had problems.”

He finished his bun and wiped his hands on his coat. It was that day of the month, again. The cemetery was only a few blocks away.


	2. A Thousand Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Korra and Asami's daughter thinks about her familial connections.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There won't be an overarching story to anything I post (tried it before, too hard to keep up). Instead this will be any interesting little stories I think up, when and if I do.

Miyako massaged her temples. Damn, these board meetings were boring. She should have done like Amaqjuaq and sold her shares of Future Industries when she had the chance.

Yet here she was, with her 20% share of the company, listening to the CEO blabber on about quarterly gains and new products. She knew it was all for show. Future Industries had thrived since the dawning of the computer age, when suddenly everyone who was anyone wanted the best and the newest every year. She should know, since she was one of those people.

Instead of listening, her eyes wandered…The portrait of Hiroshi Sato at one end of the boardroom, an intimidating man with flecks of white in his hair; the window washers she could on a skyscraper through the huge windows, scurrying like ants on a precarious foothold; and behind the CEO, mom’s portrait.

She decided she might as well look at it, since it would seem like she was paying attention. Mom hadn’t changed since the last time she checked. There she was, in her early thirties, hair like the sea on a moonless night and green eyes that shone from the canvas. The Asami Sato in the portrait was almost nothing like her daughter remembered her.

Almost nothing, because here and there she could see a slight sharpness in her eyes, that glint of curiosity and determination that Miyako knew well. The glint a 14-year-old girl had seen late at night, as her mother tinkered and cursed over prototype TVs. 

 

_“Mom, why do you work so hard?”_

_Her mother set down some unnamed part of the TV and looked over the disassembled appliance scattered on her worktop. It was a moment before she spoke._

_“My dad always told me that any job worth doing was worth doing well.”_

 

Miyako’s eyes swept back to the portrait of Hiroshi for a split second. He was intimidating, yes, but she sensed it came out of a not-undue pride. The way he held himself in the portrait–his hand resting on table next to a minute model of his first Satomobile–spoke to a man who had strove hard to get to where he was.

 

_“Even when I hated him, I always stood by that. It was like it was the one good thing I had from him.”_

_A pause._

_“He died because of it. But that just makes it all the more important that I remember what he said.”_

 

Miyako smiled despite the memory. She was terrible at getting things done, ever since she was a kid. Start a hobby, immerse herself in it, and then let it go. She had flitted from job to job as she got older, to disparate reactions from her parents. Mom had been worried she would never figured out what she would want, but mama had insisted that Miyako have all the time she needed. If it took the Avatar 3 years to find herself, how much longer would a normal person take?

Miyako had long ago understood that she _was_ roaming and uncertainty and new horizons, but mom had never accepted before she died. There was always a frustration and furrowed brows from her at the announcement of yet another new job, followed by a tender “Are you, sure, Miyako?” Mama would interrupt: “Just let her be herself, Asami.”

Mom’s last words to her had been, “Be happy, Miyako.”

That was probably why she kept the shares. Amaqjuaq––constant, steady Amaqjuaq––didn’t need anything to ground him. She did. Once, it had been her parents, but they were 20 years gone. 

The CEO was still droning on; she had ceased caring. The shares may have been the excuse, but they weren’t the anchor.

What kept her floating away was the memory of her mother’s eyes.


	3. A Bad Day...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mako tries to remember and finds that sometimes, remembering isn't for the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a rough timeline, Mako is in his late nineties to early hundreds and has outlasted basically everyone else from his generation. 
> 
> This chapter should be read in conjunction with the following one, if only so the sadness isn't overdone.

“Uncle? Can you hear me?” 

Mako’s eyes slowly creeped open. Where was he? Who was this woman?

She must have sensed his confusion. “Do you not know who I am?” Mako shook his head slowly.

 “That’s okay. I’m a friend, I’m here to take care of you.” Mako took in the room and the woman. White walls, like a hospital. The woman’s green eyes pierced through him with an imperceptible emotion. Suddenly, he remembered.

 “Where’s Korra? We were supposed to have dinner.”

 It was his day off. He and Korra hadn’t seen each other for a long time. She’d been trying to smooth the Earth Kingdom’s transition to a democracy, and he’d been working overtime on a Triple Triad murder case. Today, they were going to get noodles together, just like old times.

 It had been a habit when they were going out: stopping by a noodle cart as the sun was setting to order steaming bowls of liquid saltiness. Korra had developed quite a taste for them despite the difference from Water Tribe cuisine. Once the hurt had dissipated and they were back to being friends, noodle night continued–much more infrequent, often hurried, but still a cherished tradition.

 “She’s…busy tonight.”

 Of course. She was the Avatar. Always busy. Why did he suddenly miss her so much?

 His voice cracked. “Where is she? Where’s Korra?”

 A pained look on the woman’s face. He remembered, again. The poison, Korra twitching in pain. The woman was lying.

 “Where is she?!

 He lunged forward. Or, he tried to, but the woman caught him. She winced as a wisp of flame nicked her arm. Mako suddenly felt very tired.

 “Korra had a long life. There’s a new Avatar, now.”

 Mako stared at the TV suspended from the ceiling. How long had he been gone? What year was it? Bolin and Opal had just gotten married, hadn’t they?

 “See? Here he is.”

 She unfolded a worn newspaper clipping. “Exclusive Interview with Avatar Zheng: Life with Republic City’s Teen Bending Master” A boy stared out of a photo: green eyes, a square chin, messy short black hair. The smile was obviously feigned.

 Mako snatched up the piece of paper. His eyes watered as he traced the lines of the boy’s face. 

 “Korra is dead?”

 She had always been cocky, steadfast, ready to fight when fighting was needed. Besides Bolin, she was the closest friend he had. An essential piece of the fabric of life, an eternal foundation, something that was just always there. And now, she was ripped out.

 The woman nodded and sat down on the bed beside him. She reached around him, gently, as he began to sob.

 It was the twentieth time he had learned about Korra’s death. 


	4. ...A Good Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Opal and Bolin's daughter watches her uncle and reflects on what it means to grow old.

It was one of those rare, lucid days. 

Uncle Mako smiled as he watched the sparrows flitting about, building their nest in one of the courtyard’s trees. Min smiled at Uncle Mako.

“How is Jun? What is he up to?”

Jun was one of Uncle Mako’s favorite subjects on these days. Out of all of his grand-nieces and nephews (and there were many, because Min’s parents had been nothing if not prolific), he was the only one to go into pro-bending. It was one of Uncle Mako’s joys to watch those matches, even though most of the time he couldn’t remember that he was related to the earthbender on the screen. 

“His season is going really well! The Platypusbears are sure to win the championship this year.”

“Ahhh, good, good.”

Pro-bending….Min knew Uncle Mako had only done it for a short time in his youth, but the old man’s habits betrayed him. He had certainly loved being on the force, but Min remembered him hunched by the radio (and later, TV) whenever he had to babysit her. He had sat with his usual stoic expression, staring at the numbers on the dial with a penetrating gaze, but when his favorite team won the championship he whooped and hollered like it was going out of fashion.

He whooped and hollered much more often now, even with his feeble voice. Min guessed age had softened him, grinded away at his stoicism until the concealed emotions beneath had shown through. When he had become chief of police, his speech had been terse, thanking the people of the city for entrusting their safety to him. He had said the same when he stepped down, but his edges of his eyes were studded by tears and his voice had shaken like a leaf in the wind.

“It’s nearly 5, Uncle. Do you want to go in and watch the match?” 

“Yes.” 

Well, he could still be stoic, sometimes. Mostly about his age, unfortunately. More than once Min had had to remind him, even on these good days, that he couldn’t get out of his wheelchair without help. She shuddered thinking about it. She was the youngest of her siblings–a sprightly 61–and she had watched as the eldest, Yong, had gone from hiking up mountains to struggling to breathe through his oxygen tubes. Too many cigarettes, they said, but that had barely comforted her.

Jun was getting old, too. He was already 29, and Min knew he would soon have to turn to coaching players instead of playing matches. But, he was different: he embraced it. He had always wanted to be a coach, he said, and even if he missed being in the ring it would just be another step in the journey of life. Min wasn’t sure if her son’s bravado was a false front or not, but nonetheless he was braver than her by far.

They stopped in front of the big screen TV, which was already showing the pre-match commentary. Several of the nursing home’s inhabitants were there, from those that could still move about by their own volition to those that tottered on canes to those like Uncle Mako. He was among the oldest of them, by far, but Min chose not to dwell on it. Right now, it was pro-bending time.

Uncle Mako leaned forward as much as he could, eyes bright as the match begun. There was Jun, dancing like the wind as he slammed discs into his opponents. Every limb was involved as he whirled: a momentary headstand to avoid a water attack became him throwing discs with his feet. At times, Min swore Jun wasn’t even touching the ground. 

Uncle Mako was laughing with delight, his hands making weak motions that Min eventually realized were old, ingrained pro-bending forms.  

“If Bolin could see this boy, Min, if Bolin could see him!” 

Yes, if her father could see Jun, he would be proud, just as proud as Min was, as Uncle Mako was.

One, two, Jun took out the remaining firebender on the opponent’s side. It was a clean sweep, and the Platypusbears had won.

Mako gave a shout, startling a pair playing pai sho close by as he grinned from ear to ear. 

“That’s how you do it!”

He turned to Min, the grin never leaving his face, and Min smiled back. 

Yes, there were the bad days, but perhaps getting old wasn’t all scary. 


	5. Perfection of Character

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amaqjuaq thinks on what it means to protect people––for both the Avatar and everyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Karate in this scenario is a Fire Nation martial art that got popular after the War, but since this is the Avatarverse instructors are called "sifu" instead of "sensei".

 

Amaqjuaq bent over, coughing. His age was acting up again, but he wouldn’t let it stop him.

He looked at the shrinking child in front of him.

“Ryu, do you know why you’re here?”

“Because I got in a fight at school, Sifu.”

“Not just because of that. It’s because of how that fight happened.”

Amaqjuaq was a stern teacher, but he did not like giving lectures. Lectures meant he had failed to instill something in one of his charges, that he had ever so slightly not measured up as an instructor. It was a sad occasion to him to speak to one of his students this way.

“You were the one to attack, Ryu.”

The 8-year-old boy suddenly couldn’t meet Amaqjuaq’s eyes.

“Your father tells me that the other boy insulted one of your favorite heroes. Is that why you felt the need to use karate against him?”

“He said Firelord Zuko was a bad guy! Zuko is the best, he helped Avatar Aang and–“

Amaqjuaq suddenly slapped his hands together, startling Ryu into silence.

“Ryu, I am disappointed in you. One of the principles of our art is that it is used in self-defense, never in anger.”

“But he just kept saying that Zuko was a bad guy and I got really angry and I just…”

“Ryu, do you know who my mother was?”

The boy shook his head slowly. The idea of his old, grey-haired teacher having a mother had never occurred to him. Amaqjuaq would have laughed, if not for the situation. Or the sudden memory of mama’s proud face, surveying his dojo for the first time so many years ago.

“My mother––well, one of them––was Avatar Korra.”

Ryu’s eyes grew round with disbelief.

“Avatar Korra? She’s almost as cool as Zuko! She punched tons of bad guys.”

“Let me tell you something about her not a lot of people know.”

Amaqjuaq carefully sat down cross-legged on the mat. It wasn’t conventional for a master, but then again, sometimes what was needed was unconventional.

“When my mother was young, she got angry a lot. She got angry at her master, and her friends, and her enemies. Especially her enemies, since they were doing a lot of bad things in the world.”

“She did?” Ryu’s interest was piqued.

“Ryu, anger is natural. Even I get angry, and so does the Avatar. But you know something important? We can’t let that anger control us.”

Oh, he knew it was hard not to be angry. Amaqjuaq rarely met Avatar Zheng, but when he did, it took all his will to not snarl at him like a dog. Yes, it had been mama’s time to go, and mom’s too, but that didn’t make it easier. Every time he looked at the young Avatar he felt like he was at both of his parents’ funerals at once, weeping over a melange of death and loneliness and ashes.

But now, Amaqjuaq looked straight into the boy’s eyes.

“When my mother was young, she had a very bad enemy called Zaheer. Have you heard about him?”

“He tried to poison Avatar Korra.”

“Yes, he did. And it nearly killed her. She couldn’t walk and she had nightmares every night. And she was angry at herself, very angry, because she didn’t seem to be getting better. Even when she could walk again, she still had bad dreams. But eventually she realized that she was scared. She was scared of all the bad things her enemies had done to her and _that_ was what made her angry.”

Ryu tilted his head.

“Anger comes from fear. Fear that we can’t protect the people we love, that we can’t protect ourselves. When that boy insulted Zuko, you were angry because you were afraid that something you cherish was going to get hurt.”

“I didn’t want people to think Zuko really was a bad guy. I was…afraid of that?”

“Exactly. And the only way to defeat fear is to be brave. My mother was brave and faced Zaheer and how he tried to kill her, and then she wasn’t afraid anymore. And because she wasn’t afraid, she stopped being angry.”

Ryu seemed a little puzzled. “But she still punched bad guys, right?”

“She did, because a lot of people would have been hurt otherwise. But she didn’t do it because she was angry. She did it to protect others.”

 

_“I wanna protect people, just like you, mama!”_

_It was bedtime, and it was mama’s turn to tuck him in. Mom had just told him about how a giant Korra had saved Republic City from Unalaq and Vaatu for the umpteenth time. Mama was so cool in the story that he wanted to hear it every night._

_“Awww, thanks. I’m sure you’ll be great at it!”_

 

It was only later that he understood that protecting people was about far more than fighting off gigantic catastrophes. People didn’t just fight the bad guys, they fought each other. When he was 12 he watched a man break another’s nose over who got the last radio from a sale, right before mama rushed over to stop the fight. People had to learn discipline, to fight not from brashness or fear or annoyance, but only when was needed. But the Avatar was busy making sure the world was safe, so who would teach them?

Amaqjuaq had opened his dojo when he was 32, the culmination of his training since age 15. His parents had marveled at the sparse teaching space as though it were a palace, reading his crude calligraphy of “seek perfection of character” with a reverence usually reserved for the most holy of shrines. Even Miyako had clapped him on back in congratulations.That day, as he sparred with mama (she insisted on being his first student), he had felt an absolute certainty of purpose.

He could bend water, and he supposed in other circumstances he would be teaching bending forms instead. But the man who punched another’s nose hadn’t had bending. Mom, who had followed mama to the end of every fight, couldn’t bend. He knew that if he wanted to protect people in his own way, he had to teach as accessible an art as he could.

So here he sat, with an elementary school child, patiently explaining why he shouldn’t fight others just because he was angry.

“Just as Avatar Korra learned her bending, we learn karate to sharpen the mind and body, to know what must be done when it needs to be, and to know when anger and fear are leading us down the wrong path. Do you understand, Ryu?

“Yes, Sifu. I’m sorry.”

“You will have to apologize to the boy you fought with, Ryu. But for now, I’m glad you understand, and I accept your apology. We all make mistakes, sometimes.”

Amaqjuaq smiled as he stood up, and then Ryu almost bowled him over with a hug as strong as the small boy could make it.

“Thank you, Sifu. I’ll do better, I promise!”

He hoped mama was proud of him. 


End file.
